story of his life

he couldn’t swim much. not that he did not try ever, but he just knew. not his fault really if the pool in his house was five feet at its deepest. wasted opportunities.

it was a deliberate attempt to reduce the brightness and to objectify every moment. for all that, the joy inside of the inner sanctum lay squarely on the objectivity. the smile stemmed from the simplicity of objectivity; that a set of inter-connected moments could indeed be reduced to a statement while they could mean that much more. that knowing smile.

general friend. music. smile. coffee. money. the joker. root-eX. saturn. curls. tattoo. peace. sociality. traffic. dhe woll by phloid. admirers. swings and stitches. hairdo. gossip. it’s complicated. fokess-fokkess. auto-focus. sleep. knuckles. rizla. MJ. crap. biriyani. pose. sex. java. bill. SS. backhand. michealangelo. ride. dog. fag ends. zombie. iago. us and them. angst. zeetron. snow. waitress. fracture. rainspotting. genie. 1969. rolex. grandma. gladiator. chaos. life. death.

the three CHAs of life – chalk, chaklate, chaffeine. eat the chalk until teeth fell, eat chaklate while in puberty, and load up on chaffeine for rest of the life. cha cha cha.

after long, really long, he felt like disappearing tonight. for quite a while. couch into the clavicle. break it if need be. blame the prism for it all. remember the experiments where you traced refracted rays with pins? bloody rectangular slabs and prisms – no good; god damnit. no good. sofie, where can i find spray paint here in chennai? i like missionaries, orgies, and say what else pocket rocket?

the moon smiled as the voice slid and it was love at that very epiphanic moment the eyes locked for the first -. jazz. intimate jazz, all the way. meandering but smooth. suave yet raw. melancholic still uplifting; tenorsaxesque. deeply needy. ice and fire; alternating and vice versa. in unknown obscurities, minds fucked, weeped, sleeped, drinked, danced, laboured, laughed and loved. reindeer and lightening were that sort in togetherness but that just wouldn’t be.  dasvidaniya. there – now he had explained the metaphors as well, but felt no bloody better.

squatting inside his claustrophobic toilet, he lit up. far away, outside the door the rhythms played, no false controls. and then he screamed. forever. till his fingers burnt and he threw the remains into the pot and flushed it away. spitting into it as it spun. coughing. screw ferrel he thought. anti-clockwise, or clockwise, above or below the equator didn’t fucking matter. spit spit. bloody spitoon. spinning still, he walked back out again. tim reynolds on the guitar. next track. something about music and nights and his room and him. the intimacy of his personal space, him owning it, him controlling it. primal. till of course the objectivity fucked it up, and he smiled at his own crying face. loser.

the conflict of duality. the brutality of the statement. and then the smoke rings. he had always dreamt about it, the things he would think about; the plastic bag flying around. faces. moments. rose. train. stage. mirror. laughs. a snap of the family tree. snow. red. blue. smells. sounds. turns. chaos. life. death. ashes.

but why the hell was there so much chlorine in the water? shit. it had been cleaned just yesterday. now he was going to  be stuffed with chlorine water. funny. he should have known he would have the knowing smile on his face the last. title.